What Camping Caused: Part I (Maybe) [Mother/Son]

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I had no idea it would ever turn out this way, not even a plan for it, but it is still an exhilarating memory.

The first time I saw her naked. The first time she grabbed me and squeezed my constant stiffness. The small bite of her lip, contrasted against the Blanche of her skin and faraway look in her eyes that I would later realize was hesitation, doubt, the fear of what she was about to do. To her own son.

But then other things happened.

As is the case with young boys nearing manhood, hormones were careening through my body. All it took was a stiff breeze to get me rock hard. Honestly, most of the time not even that. I spent so much time jacking off in the shower that I was certain I would get a hard-on if it rained. Pavlovian response applying to the cock. Or mine, at least.

She had to have known what I was doing in there. Honestly, don’t all mothers? The water bill for my sessions in there must have been quite a sight.

She had always been the primary fixture in my life. A single mother, strong, opinionated, fearless. She had to be to make her way in the world with my deadbeat father far away and not keeping up with (what I would later learn) his financial obligations. I didn’t really know my father, other than this vague figure in distant memory. An empty father-shaped hole in my life.

So she was everything. We were always close. It was just me and her, always. She was still young, had me when she was 19, so we grew up—differently, of course, offset schedules—together in a lot of ways.
But then I started to get to _that_ age. And I started to see her differently. The way her dark hair would fall across her face, how she would stand up in the breeze when we worked on the garden, stretching up into the sun. Maybe it was inadvertent that she was putting on a show for me, with her strappy shirt clinging to her breasts, her nipples straining. The glistening sheen on her body and her taut legs. It was probably me turning it into a show, storing up those images for times in the shower…I never asked her about it, even after all this time.

We were a pretty outdoorsy family, the two of us. Not quite homesteading, but we grew a lot of our own food. Money was tight. So we spent a lot of time outdoors in the garden, and camping.

They are my greatest memories, even before the _first_ time.

We had a ratty old tent, not even a real sleeping bag, at least not one that actually worked as advertised. We’d go out maybe once every two or three months, more in summer. There was a place she liked, quiet and secluded, with a lake nearby.

That lake…well…I blame the lake for how it all started.

Seeing her come up out of the water, head back, hair slicked back as she ran her hands over her face and up over her hair, pushing the water back. Her swimsuit showing her lithe body and curves. Breasts that were, as far as I am concerned, perfect. Not huge, not small, they had a heft, a delicious curve. And her nipples. My god. To this day I still have an insatiable thing for big nipples, “eraser nipples” I think people call them now. Ever see Bai Ling’s? Yeah…my mom’s are so much better. Long, thick, begging to be touched and licked and rubbed, to be squeezed.

That’s what started it.

She must have seen the look on my face, or noticed my discomfort. Maybe she was even a bit self-conscious about it too, as she looked a bit embarrassed as she came out of the water, looking away after noticing me shift my legs to hide the bulge in my shorts. I was looking for something to cover myself up with, or some distraction to pull her gaze away.

“What’s wrong, sweetie?” she asked.

I must have sounded like an idiot, stammering out a non-response. She smiled, in a strange way, kind of a glint in her eye, a curl of her lip in a way I hadn’t seen before.

“Come help me get the pit ready to cook the fish we caught earlier.”

“Uh—OK,” I stammered, “can I sit here for a few minutes? I want to see the sun set a bit more.”

There was that curl of her lip again, almost a hungry look in her eye. I knew I was delaying until my cock went back down to a more manageable state. She didn’t know that, did she?

“OK, handsome young man,” she said and turned and walked away.

Was she swinging her hips more?

_Damnit, get a hold of yourself. That’s your mom._

But I couldn’t stop watching. I, the intellectual _me_, wasn’t in control at that point. But then—as I watched—she bent over to get something out of the chest, probably the fish. But she bent at her waist, her heart-shaped ass in my direct view, the bare covering over her womanhood crowning between her thighs.

I might have moaned a little.

She looked back at me, without standing back up, with a clear mischievous grin and sparkle in her eye.

“You sure you’re OK?” she asked. There was a light taunt in her voice, a different tone to it. I hadn’t heard it before. She didn’t sound like my mom. She sounded sultry.

“Y—yeah, I’m fine.”

“Then come over here,” she was still in that pose, looking back at me around her shoulder, her ass still taunting me.

“Come on,” she prodded, her eyes boring into me. Daring me, in retrospect.

So I stood up. My cock had not gotten any more manageable. It was worse.

I tried to stand up with my back to her, hoping to adjust myself and hide things before I turned toward her. I wasn’t all that successful. At the time I thought I was smooth, but no…I wasn’t.

She looked down to my crotch as I turned toward her. I could feel myself straining against my own skin.
I walked up behind her, trying to appear as if I was looking everywhere but her while still trying to see only her. To remember this view. There were showers to be had.

We were close, when I stopped. A foot or two apart, her eyes still on the clear shape of what was straining in my shorts. She slowly stood up, her eyes slipping up from my crotch to my face.
She smiled. Grinned, more like.

“You’re getting so big,” she said. It was kind of a whispery voice, not her usual speaking voice. I didn’t really notice at first, because all I saw now were her gorgeous nipples making a clear attempt to rip through her bikini top.

I could feel the flush in my cheeks, felt the thrumming of my pulse in my ears. Everything was distantly vibrating, like I was riding a string quivering in the wind.

We stared at each other for a few seconds and I watched her face fall from that mischevious glint to a…well, I think “shocked look” is the best way to describe it. She shook her head quickly, fractionally, like she was clearing herself out of something.

“Come on,” she said, patting my shoulder in a strange way, a _distant_ way. “Let’s get dinner going.”
Then she disappeared into the tent, as I watched. When she came back out, she was covered in a thick sweater and sweat pants. Everything now hidden.

I don’t think I hid my disappointment well.

It wasn’t exactly an awkward meal, but neither was it normal. There was a weight to it. Or so I felt. A quietness at first, as if there was hesitation. I was focused on controlling myself, to not think of my own mother this way. Internally I was trying to sort through all the nudity I had seen in my young life in an effort to replace the sudden thoughts of my mother, to redirect my own attention.

For her part, I think she was trying to be even more in “mom” mode. If motherhood could be described by the books, that’s what she was doing throughout dinner. School, friends, mechanical conversation hitting all the textbook topics and notes. Still her same light playfulness and joking with me, like she had always done, but nothing that could have been misconstrued, even by my hormone-adled brain.

But…well…there was just the one tent. And the non-sleeping bag I mentioned before? It was in effect a mattress with a single blanket to complete the ensemble. The end result being: we were sleeping together.

_Don’t think of it_ that _way_, I told myself.

And with dinner over, the fire dying down, and a nighttime chill setting in, that’s where we were going to end up. It was inevitable.

Which is why I think she chose to sleep outside of the blanket. Still covered in sweats from neck to toe. well, she had this headband thing on too, but that doesn’t count. I didn’t realize this at the time, her reasoning for sleeping outside of the blanket. I just remember being slightly disappointed I didn’t get to see her in her usual shorts and top she slept in. And I also remember chastising myself for that thought.
I thought about sneaking off to get all this out of my system, somehow thinking this would help, but I just couldn’t make it work. Or, at least, I couldn’t get past my own paranoia about how flimsy it all sounded when I rehearsed it in my head.

So instead the night does what it does best: took us towards sleep.

The stars out there were always—still are—amazing. More than we could ever see at home. The sound of the forest, the small splashes of life doing things in the lake. It was pleasant, soothing. And before long I was tired.

Perhaps to break the silence between us that had cropped up, I started to clean up a bit more, putting things away, making sure things were closed up. Luckily there were no bears in our area, but still, other things went bump in the night. She watched me in silence, a pleasant look on her face. Though sometimes too she was just staring up into the above. With a yawn, I told her I was going to bed.
She smiled at me and told me goodnight, that she wanted to sit up a bit longer and enjoy the crisp air. I kissed her on the cheek and went to bed, zipping up the tent behind me.

The dream I had after that is also a definite point of blame. I’ve had wet dreams before, not many, but they have always been vivid and engrossing. But still muddled or muted—visually, not quite clear on who or what, but always on how. Always resulting in the fabled “nocturnal emission.”

This one, however, was clear. It was specific. It was about my mother. To this day I can remember every detail of that dream, in perfect clarity. Of course, I can say the same about what happened after the dream as well. The two definitely have to do with each other.

I woke up with a start, my eyes snapping open. Pushing my way back through the fog of the dream in order to tell waking from sleeping.

But two things became quickly apparent. One, I was pressed up against my mother, both of us on our sides. Her still covered in sweats, me in shorts and a t-shirt. And two: my boxers were soaked through with that nocturnal emission.

Well, two other things: my hand was on her hip, and I was somehow pushing myself—grinding myself—against her ass. My cock nestled between the hemispheres of her rear. I was _moving_ against her, but I _wasn’t_. Or at least I wasn’t doing it consciously.

I tried to still myself, holding my breath. Waiting. Hoping she didn’t wake up. That feeling of dread moments before one gets caught doing something that should not be done. There was this weightless drop in my chest, as if the ground had suddenly dropped away beneath me, and was still falling.

_Did…did she just move? Jesus. No. Stop._

But I felt it again, that increasing pressure, the weight of her against my hips, magnifying the throb of me against her. I may have moaned, I don’t know. Everything was electric, a buzz tearing through that moment and on into whatever came next.

I squeezed my eyes shut, held my breath again until I felt the strain of my lungs and the pressure in my face. I inched back. She didn’t move.

I waited, watched her breathing, looking for any sign she was awake or might wake up. Nothing.

So I moved again, backing up a bit more, trying to turn onto my back as a way to get further from her. Or rather, get my cock away. I’d have to clean this up in the morning, but right now I needed to make sure I didn’t wake her.

But then she turned. A sigh and a flop of her arm and now she was on her side facing me as I lay on my back.

I couldn’t move. Literally. There was a gulping hiss of air on my lips as her forearm landed across my waist. I felt like I would pass out. My heart was beating its way out of my chest, my face burning, blood thundering in my ears and ringing. Imagine a tremble taken to its maximum extent. So all encompassing and dominant that it became full body paralysis.

Her wrist was across the wet spot. I could feel it pushing into my waist under her skin.

She moved again, a shift of her shoulders. I didn’t see it, not because it was dark, rather because I was squinting my eyes so tightly closed that I might have had to pry them open.

The flat of her hand was on the wet spot now.

I was able to shift my shoulders under me and I swore I felt her freeze too, in response. As if she was testing me.

_No. No, stop. This is all just because of the dream. She’s asleep. Calm down._

I don’t know how long we stayed that way, but it must have been a while because I felt myself finally drift off after some time. That strange near-distance when you’re staring down the abyss of sleep.
And then her hand slipped down onto me.

I was still semi-stiff. Or I _was_. That all quickly changed. As soon as she touched me. It was like a race to get to full mast. I might have set a world record.

I felt guilt at that. Like I was putting her through this. My body’s response being a crime, something she should not be subjected to.

But then she squeezed.

And her hand was definitely moving down a bit, ever so slightly. Then back up. An infinitesimal movement that still carried with it something I was convinced could not be true.
Intentionality.

I slowly turned my head, feigning as if this was some errant movement of sleep, subconscious and uncontrolled. Through a eyelid trying to pretend to be closed I saw the light of her eyes looking at me.
She had that look on her face. One of indecision, but also of realizing that while indecision may have been taking place, there was already more tallies stacked in one column vs. the other.

She squeezed again. I opened my eyes. We looked at each other. Nothing was said. But a silent conversation took place.

She stroked more intently this time, no way to question its intent. Her eyes seemed to ask me something. My hips rocked up, pushing myself into her hand more. My answer being apparent.

The curl came back to her lips, then she licked them and rolled her head, a lock of hair that had escaped from her band knocked back out of the way, before she settled back to her curled arm under her head.
I felt her hand slip under the waist of my boxers. Felt them swirl across the still-wet slickness my dream had left behind. She smiled as I felt her roll it between her fingers, as if she were testing or enjoying the consistency. She had a far-away look in her eyes as she did.

Then her bare hand, her skin, touched mine.

If not for that dream…I would have lost it right then and there. No question. A fire burst forth in me. I felt myself throbbing, currents of heat flowing down my arms and chest towards my penis. The skin there burning. I think I even felt the heat radiating back off of her. The skin was so tight I felt like I would rip open. She always has that effect.

She sat up then. Her movement nudging me out of some stupor, or clinging to some hope that maybe this was still the dream. I tried to say something, but her other hand put a finger to my lips as she shook her head.

She was slipping my shorts down, my hips and legs helping without any thought from me. The tent, with its vents at the top, let in enough moonlight for the view to become more apparent to us both. She gazed down at me, smiled, her hands tracing across my hardness, using my own wetness against me.

I closed my eyes and gasped as she took a firm grip and slipped down my shaft, then back up, her thumb tracing over me. I opened my eyes quickly enough to look down and see her squeeze a drop of remnant out of me, catching it on her fingertip. Then saw her take it closer to her face, smoothing it between fingertips again, then licking it.

I couldn’t believe this was happening. And the beautific look on her face…it spoke of something she would later tell me was the break of a long dry spell, of being desired, of being able to excite a man—even me—that way, and for it to be all because of her, for her, about her. She was _wanted_.

Then she kissed me. Down there. A light fluttering. Then a wet kiss. Then I felt the delicate fold of her lips wrapping around my head and drawing me in. I tried to watch, I wanted to see it, but it was a maddening frenzy in me, caught between feeling and seeing. My head rolled back. I think I moaned her name because suddenly she was aggressively sliding me in and out of her mouth, her hands spreading my thighs open so one hand cupped my balls and the other stroked my shaft just below her lips.

Again, that wet dream was the only thing that allowed this to last. But I could already feel myself getting close again. Every time I was able to look down and see myself enveloped by her I felt the need to release rush forward a bit more.

She knew.

She stopped.

She sat up, her hand tracing up my belly to my shirt, tugging it enough to tell me she wanted it off. I obliged. Never has a shirt been taken off so quickly.

As I leaned back on my elbows, I watched…I gazed longingly…as she removed her sweatshirt. I remember every move, the sound of the fabric rustling along her skin. The way she turned her head to the side before she disappeared from view and the way her head turned back to me once she was free. How she then traced her hands up her waist, the shadows below her breasts accentuating their draw as her hands glided up her sides and to her nipples, leaning forward and pinching them, rolling them between her fingers. Those nipples, perhaps half as long as my thumb, thick and rigid.

She guided my hand to them, letting me explore and squeeze. I was mesmerized. There’s no real other way to say it—and it still belies the actual feeling and urge—but I could not stop feeling them and touching them. Her hand on my head was barely needed to guide them into my mouth, one then the other. Her responses educating me, the sighs and hisses following when I sucked, how they increased when I gently bit or rolled and pinched them, teaching me to not be rough, but to not be shy about it either.

She pushed me back down. I could hear her breathing, feel the energy coming off of her. A hunger, a desire. She stood up, towering over me, and slipped off her sweatpants. She was now fully naked above me, the shadows cascading down her body and highlighting the curves of her, the hollows of her, the cleft of her breasts, her womanhood cast in shadow.

Until she spread her legs, her hands sliding down her body. She must have arched her hips forward because suddenly I could see her pussy, her glistening lips and the soft hair covering them. I could see the flash of her as her fingertips spread herself open, her eyes watching me as I stared up into her.

Then she lowered herself to me, one knee by my head and one foot under my arm, on my chest. But I could _smell_ her. There was a smell! I never knew that. It was a heady aroma, intoxicating. She moaned and cocked her head as she saw me responding, my head already angling closer to her.

She just said one word that entire time.

“Kiss.”

It was a long drawn out word. Pleading. Imploring. Yet still direct and insistent. So I kissed. I tasted her. The first contract electrifying me, sending a buzz through me. My hand was on my own cock without me even realizing it, and the only way I did realize it was because I felt her hand playfully bat mine away as she slowly started stroking me. I looked up at her—the view of her above me like that is just…indescribable—watching her watch me, watching her as she looked back at what she was doing to me…it made us both smile.

But then she was pulling away from me, sliding down, shushing me as I protested, wanting back where I was.

But all that changed when I felt the impossible slickness of her pussy sliding against my cock. It was heaven. A pure sensation, all-consuming. I watched as her hips rocked back and forth on me, her hands on my chest to steady herself. My hands found their way to her hips, put she pulled them up to her breasts again.

She shifted above me, making me feel suddenly cold at the warmth of her moving off of my visibly throbbing dick. I felt her hand back on me then, but differently. And then I felt something that was put to shame anything I else I had felt before. Absolute perfection.

The sudden encompassing warmth and wetness of her slowly descending over me. The impossibly delicate folds of her pussy caressing my throbbing member. The warmth…it was like someone on the verge of hypothermia to be suddenly bathed in a healing and perfect light. All cares dissolved, all physicality other than the point of connection ceased to exist.

Both of us lived there, at that nexus of where we became one.

She writhed on me, moaning. Starting to move in a rhythm. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I felt like moving with her, or I tried to. She kept my hands on her breasts, kept me squeezing them as I disappeared into her. Her eyes were closed, a look of both concentration and abandon on her face. Her hair had fallen into her face again and it puffed with her gasps and moans, tossing as she turned her head.
She moved faster, but still luxuriously. Savoring. I could feel myself tensing, feel that drop sensation before everything was about to come rushing forward. She knew too. She nodded her head, her moans turning into a sound of affirmation and encouragement.

And then I was exploding into her. Falling back into a vast sea of sensation where only she existed. It seemed boundless, and—she later confirmed—it just kept going and going. Leaking out of her, spreading all over us. Each of my shuddering thrusts loosing more into her and out of her. Yet still she kept going. Louder, sharp cries turning ever more urgent.

And then I felt her squeeze against me, _inside_ of her. Pulling at me, each time she lifted off like she was wrapped around me. It pulled everything out of me as her hands turned into fingernails in my skin.
The only other thing I remember, physically, is the feeling of her nipples between my fingers at the moment, those hard buds and my fingers squeezing around them. And then she was slowing on me. Catching her breath.

She was glistening. All over now, not just down there. I was in awe. Not because of what happened, what had _just_ happened, though obviously that had an impact. But no. I was in awe because of just how incredibly gorgeous she looked. Her skin flushed, nipples swollen, lustful look in her face, the moon cascading down her body.

“You’re beautiful,” I panted. It was the first time either of us had said anything since she told me to kiss her down there.

She smiled at me, wriggling her hips. I felt that sudden clench around me again, inside of her, and I spasmed and flinched. She laughed a devilish and small laugh, then leaned down and kissed me.

Then she let me slip out of her. She laid down next to me, on her side with her back to me, and reached back to pull me against her back. She pulled my arms around her and snuggled in. Her ass back where this had all started…with my cock nestled firmly against it. And I felt like I was nearly read to go again, if I’m being honest.

“Goodnight,” she said.

The next morning we slept in. Or at least I did. She was watching me when I woke up. Smiling at me. Still with that same motherly love I had known all my life, but now with something else there too.
We ate breakfast around the fire, quietly, but not awkwardly. Nothing needed to be said, we were—surprisingly—at ease.

She told me we had a lot to talk about, a lot to figure out. But first she wanted to make sure of a particular concern.

“Sweetie,” she began, looking down and poking at the fire, “what happened last night. That’s…that’s not normal. A mother and a son.”

She looked off after that, her mouth open. She kind of laughed and puffed air out of her mouth.

“But how do you feel about it? Did…do you feel bad? About that. That it happened.”
She must have read something in my face, because suddenly she looked sad. Her mouth closed as she leaned back, a glisten to her eyes.

“No. No, mom,” I said, “I was trying to find the words. Because…I…I guess I wonder how you could possibly think I would feel bad.”

She smiled then, a quick flash, maybe relief. But she continued.

“I understand,” she said, “that physical need. But how do you _feel_ about it? Do you feel like I forced you? Or used you? Do you feel…disgusted? Like we have to be different now—”

“No!” I blurted, cutting her off. “Absolutely not. You’re my mom. I love you. But…I…I loved _that_ too.”

There was visible relief. As if a weight had been taken off of her shoulders the way her body settled under her, less strained, less intent.

“Do…” she began, but then hesitated. She sighed again. “What if it happened again?”

After she said this she closed her eyes, that tension back in the way she held her shoulders, as if she was bracing for something.

I understood what was being left unsaid in the question. There was a question of decency, but also of rejection. Of a door opened that had to be potentially slammed closed, and all that would mean for the future. Of a path that was started but could not be finished. That may have to, in reality, be burned down. I understood.

“Yes, mom,” I said, my voice stronger than I felt, without the quiver of excitement blooming through me. “I want it to happen again. A…well…a lot.”

There was a consuming silence then. I think even the forest went quiet as we looked at each other and saw the change in what we were to each other.

But I saw her easing again. I saw that glisten in her eyes again. I was worried that what I “understood” was actually _my_ projection of what _I_ wanted onto _her_. That what _I_ wanted was going to be suddenly ripped away.

But then she burst into a laugh that was also a smiling cry. Her hands brushing tears from under her eyes and briefly hiding that smile of hers.

“Good, honey,” she said, laughing and crying again, “that’s good. We’re going to have to talk about how that works. And all the things I want…erm…I can show you.”

I smiled and we were suddenly hugging. A deep long hug. Starting the way we always had, but now moving into something different. Our bodies pressed together in new ways. And me…well…pressing against her, straining against her, in new ways. She grinned at me with that glint again as I felt her grind back against me.

Our foreheads pressed together. Eyes closed. Then we were kissing. In a way I had never kissed before. It was an electrical thrill brought on solely by her lips and mouth. It was jaw-dropping, in so many ways the same heady sensation as when I was inside of her.

She broke the kiss, holding my head with her hands, foreheads pressed together again, looking at each other closely.

“But just remember, this doesn’t change that I am your mom. You still have to listen to me, you still have to do certain things. But…but there’s new things you need to do too. And maybe some new punishments if you act up.”

I think I knew what she was saying.

“Yes, mom,” I said. And we started cleaning up for our next swim…which would never be the same as any of the ones before.

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/whg0mf/what_camping_caused_part_i_maybe_motherson